


Catching Up

by blewoutthestars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, crowley is also a bit of a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blewoutthestars/pseuds/blewoutthestars
Summary: ‘Ready to carry on where we left off?’ Crowley asks as the MGM lion roars on screen. He’s already slid as low as it’s possible to be in this kind of chair, and looks for all the world like he’s in his own living room.‘Where we left off?’ Just for a moment Aziraphale has no idea what he’s talking about.Then it clicks.If you go to the cinema and actually watch the film then you're doing it wrong.





	Catching Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort-of follow on from [So Sick Of Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19242814). It's not required reading but some bits might make a little more sense if you do!
> 
> When I was debating about whether to use Dogma or something else in _So Sick Of Waiting_ VioletSmith suggested Stigmata because "Gabriel Byrne in priest wear" and a blowjob because "Crowley on his knees would add to the blasphemy." And I couldn't just _not write that_ so here it is and you can blame them.

‘What do you think?’

Aziraphale looks up from painstakingly typing out his accounts for the last quarter as Crowley slaps down a pair of tickets on the desk.

‘What do I think of what?’

‘Of these.’ With one finger Crowley pointedly slides the tickets towards him. They’re actually upside down, from his angle, but Aziraphale can still read them.

‘"_Stigmata_ at the Edinburgh Film Festival.” This is tomorrow night, Crowley.’

‘Yes.’

‘In Edinburgh.’

‘Yes?’

Aziraphale thinks he might be getting a headache. ‘You want us to go all the way up to Scotland at a day’s notice to watch a, frankly, less-than-middle-of-the-road film from the late nineteen-nineties? That’s what you’re asking me to do?’

Crowley’s eyes are hidden but his eyebrows look wounded. ‘I thought it would be right up your street. Catholicism. Edinburgh. Gabriel Byrne dressed as a priest. What’s not to like?’

‘I’d have to close the shop…’

‘What a departure that would be.’ Crowley’s tone is dripping in so much sarcasm that, for once, even Aziraphale can’t miss it. 

He tries to think of another argument but… he does like Edinburgh. It’s a few decades since he was last there; he didn’t even know that they _had_ a film festival these days. He would like to see if that little restaurant on George Street is still open…

He saves his spreadsheet. The computer, sensing that he is no longer paying attention to it, obligingly shuts itself down. ‘You’ve twisted my arm.’

Crowley is already sauntering towards the door, as though that was a foregone conclusion – which, Aziraphale concedes, it really probably was. ‘Pick you up tomorrow.’

He hesitates. ‘I could just get the train…’

But Crowley has already left.

*

The cinema is an old one. The sort where the seats still flip up and the floors have the kind of gentle stickiness that suggest many years of popcorn. Aziraphale likes it. He’s never been a fan of the big modern multiplexes with self-serve drinks and adjustable seating. This is how cinemas are supposed to be.

Crowley’s got them tickets right in the centre; according to him it’s where the sound will be best. Aziraphale isn’t sure that this is the sort of film where that kind of thing matters but he’s happy to indulge his demon. It turns out that this film showing is part of a series the festival is doing on “Religious Films and Contemporary Contextualisations.” It all sounds frightfully dull to Aziraphale but, from the number of people attending the screening, it seems to have drawn quite a crowd. Without wanting to stereotype at all, he would guess that they’re all Film Studies students.

‘Ready to carry on where we left off?’ Crowley asks as the MGM lion roars on screen. He’s already slid as low as it’s possible to be in this kind of chair, and looks for all the world like he’s in his own living room.

‘Where we left off?’ Just for a moment Aziraphale has no idea what he’s talking about.

Then it clicks.

After _Dogma_ their little tradition had waned. Aziraphale has always told himself that it was just conflicting schedules, you know; humanity’s getting bigger all the time, lots of work to do. Nothing at all to do with what happened the last time they watched a film together… one month before this one was released.

Oh f-… f-… fiddlesticks.

Since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and that one particular evening, there have been a few encounters. Plenty of meetings and lunches and dinners of course, as always, but several more breakfasts. Mostly when Crowley has shown up out of the blue at the bookshop and drawn him with looks and cajoling words and deep kisses up to the bedroom, but also one memorable night when Aziraphale found himself taking a cab to Crowley’s flat at three in the morning and they never made it past the hallway. So, in all honesty, he should have seen this coming.

Crowley’s hand is on his knee before Gabriel Byrne is even out of Brazil.

By the time Patricia Arquette shows up Aziraphale has already lost track of the plot entirely, but it really honestly isn’t his fault. He’s been busy learning, at Crowley’s insistence, how uncomfortable it is to make out in cinema seats and also how very worth the neck pain. Crowley is very, very good at kissing. Aziraphale doesn’t know it, because it’s not the sort of thing they talk about, but - if asked - Crowley would say the same thing about him. 

Aziraphale’s favourite thing about kissing Crowley – apart from the surprising softness of Crowley’s lips, and the faint smokey taste of his mouth, and the truly unbelievable things his tongue is capable of – is the way Crowley touches him. His hands flutter over Aziraphale’s skin like they can’t decide where to land: one moment cupping his chin, the next sliding down his arm to twine their fingers together; often gripping his hips and straining to caress as much of his arse as possible. It’s a very effective way of taking Aziraphale’s brain entirely offline and Crowley knows it.

So when, not long into the film, Crowley leans across the armrest and tugs at Aziraphale’s waistcoat until he twists into kissing range, Aziraphale acquiesces more than happily. For the next hour or more the world is Crowley’s mouth and Crowley’s hands… and constantly having to change position because this is not what this kind of seating was designed for and these seats will numb your buttocks enough when properly sat upon, let alone when putting up with this sort of behaviour. It’s teenage and lovely, and makes Aziraphale think that this film is really much better than the critics gave it credit for.

And then. One of Crowley’s inquisitive hands is no longer content with the more PG-rated parts of his body. 

Aziraphale gasps into Crowley’s mouth as a hand finds its way up the inside of his thigh to nestle in the heat of his groin. Aziraphale’s been hard for a while – making out with Crowley has that effect – but it’s really been more background noise up to this point. Now it’s front and centre. Crowley presses down with the heel of his hand, just ever-so-slightly, until Aziraphale whimpers.

‘Here?’ He tries to sound sensual and confident but it comes out as a squeak.

Crowley’s voice is little more than a growl. ‘Here.’

‘But…’ It’s really very hard to focus on complicated things like words when Crowley is doing _that_ with his hands. ‘… people…’

He can hear the smirk. ‘They’ve not noticed anything else.’

It’s true. Two middle-aged men snogging each other’s faces off in the middle of a really-not-that-kind-of-movie should have provoked at least a couple of Looks but everyone around them seems completely oblivious.

‘They won’t notice?’ By God, he hopes not. Crowley is massaging his erection through layers of fabric and he can barely breathe.

‘Shall we find out?’

Crowley is already unbuttoning his trousers. Practise has made perfect and he wastes no time in wrapping his fingers firmly around Aziraphale’s cock, probing not-quite-enough at his most sensitive places and beginning to stroke an achingly slow rhythm.

Aziraphale concentrates very, very hard on not making any undignified noises and almost succeeds.

Crowley makes a show of looking around them even as he takes his angel apart at the seams. ‘No one seems to be noticing so far. Look at them. They’re rapt.’

On screen, possessed-Patricia-Arquette is seducing Gabriel Byrne. The one tiny bit of Aziraphale’s consciousness that isn’t focussed on his cock acknowledges that not one single person is looking their way.

‘Can you blame them?’ Crowley continues, a whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, increasing his pace just ever-so-slightly. ‘Fancy that. Tempting a man of the cloth. Can you even imagine?’

He punctuates his words with little flicks of his wrist that make Aziraphale almost sob. ‘You’re distracting them,’ Aziraphale manages to force out. Like there’s some primal part of him that can’t forgo an opportunity to bicker. ‘It’s a miracle. Your miracle.’

Crowley hums contemplatively. ‘You think? You’d better hope I don’t lose concentration then.’ 

‘Mmmph,’ is just about all Aziraphale can manage in reply.

‘Then again,’ Crowley muses, ‘It’s a bit risky, isn’t it? Right here in the open? One slip… anyone could see... probably best not to risk it.’ He withdraws his hand. Aziraphale almost combusts with want.

‘… what? Crowley? Crowley, _please_.’ He’s fully aware that he’s whining and he doesn’t care. If Crowley doesn’t start touching him again right this second he won’t be held responsible for his actions.

‘No, no, you’re right. Too many people. Too dangerous. Best wait until later.’

‘_Crowley._’

The demon huffs faintly over-dramatically, as though he’s having his arm thoroughly twisted. ‘Unless… you want to risk it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though, if just one person sees, we’ll never be allowed back here again?’

‘_Yes._’

The look in Crowley’s eyes is pure wickedness. ‘Well, you’d better keep your voice down then. Good luck.’

The thing about Crowley is that his skeletal structure seems to alter based entirely on the situation. At least, this is the only possible explanation for how he’s suddenly on his knees in front of Aziraphale, squeezing into the impossibly tiny gap between the front of Aziraphale’s seat the and backrest of the one in front with apparent ease and comfort.

Aziraphale gapes. ‘What are you doing?’

The wickedness, if anything, magnifies. ‘_Exactly_ what you think I’m doing.’

And before Aziraphale can clarify, before he can object or encourage, his cock has been freed from the confines of his underwear and Crowley’s lips are closing around him and… _oh my God._

This is new. Mouths are new. Aziraphale grips the armrests and tries not to come then and there. If he thought Crowley’s tongue-work was top drawer when they were kissing then, well, this is setting a whole new standard.

Crowley works the head of his cock, enveloping him in heat, tongue swirling just nearly enough then dipping lower, lower. Each time pulling back for a moment, finding the right balance between suction and friction, acclimatising his throat to Aziraphale’s width. Aziraphale feels how Crowley convulses around him, taking him deeper with each mouthful, and has to bite his knuckle to keep from shouting.

Crowley reaches up and steers one of Aziraphale’s hands to his head. _Guide me._ Aziraphale can only just oblige, slight pressure from his fingertips setting a rhythm that Crowley follows with fervour. Dimly, Aziraphale is aware that they’re still in the middle of a cinema, that there are at least a hundred other people in their immediate vicinity, and that a quick finish would probably be a good idea but – for his sins – he can’t quite bring himself to have it over with that quickly. The sight of Crowley’s head buried in his lap, half bathed in shadows, lips shiny and obscenely stretched, has him ready to come right there but wanting desperately to prolong the moment, to stay on the edge for just a little longer than necessary.

He tries to focus on the scratchy cinema chair fabric, on whatever it is that’s happening ten-feet-tall on the screen in front of them, anything that will keep Crowley kneeling for him for just a few moments longer but it’s a losing battle. Crowley is _too much_ and Aziraphale can barely stand it. 

Perhaps Crowley knows it because he clearly decides that everything up until now has been nothing more than a tease and it’s time to take things to the next level. His mouth dips impossibly far, making Aziraphale think that he must have momentarily decided not to have a gag reflex. His throat is tight but yielding and it takes six millennia worth of self-control for Aziraphale to stop himself from making the most profane sound ever heard. He has to content himself with

‘Ngfff,’

which isn’t nearly explicit enough but evidently is enough encouragement for Crowley to go faster, deeper, _harder_ until Aziraphale is sweating and aching and coiled tighter than he’s ever been before.

‘Crowley… I’m…’

‘Hmm?’

And that’s it. Crowley’s hummed response, shivering through his most sensitive nerves, is enough to send him tumbling over the edge. His vision flashes white as he comes down Crowley’s throat: whole body throbbing, pulsing with relief. 

Crowley swallows around him, sucking exquisitely until Aziraphale’s last frazzled nerve can’t take anything else and then finally relinquishing, all self-satisfied smile and inscrutable sunglasses. He tucks Aziraphale’s cock away conscientiously and slithers up into his lap. Aziraphale just about has enough brain left to wrap his arms around him to stop him sliding off again. They stay like that, just for a moment, both trying to find the words.

‘Good?’ Crowley eventually asks, faintly breathless and trying to hide it.

‘Wonderful,’ Aziraphale assures him, pulling Crowley into a very appreciative kiss. The fog of orgasm is only just beginning to lift, all his nerves still over-sensitive and seeking warmth, comfort. Crowley is a well of touch; of affection, of desire. Aziraphale pulls him close.

He can feel how hard Crowley is. He can feel the way that Crowley’s skin is thrumming with blood and tension, and he has enough experience to know that Crowley absolutely will not ask for what he wants. Not when the purpose was Aziraphale’s pleasure; he would consider it bad-mannered. Aziraphale would happily give it to him anyway but the film is ending. He kisses Crowley again. ‘Shall we leave? Before the crowds?’ 

Crowley’s disappointment is palpable but, as predicted, he says nothing other than, ‘Yeah, good idea.’ He rises to his feet, letting Aziraphale up, and Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint aura of petulance radiating from the demon. Aziraphale feels a twinge of guilt but silences it. Crowley won’t be disappointed for long. He takes Crowley by the hand and leads him towards the exit.

*

The sun has gone down since they entered the cinema and outside it’s cooler, though the kind of summer-night cool where it’s not necessarily _actually_ colder but just darker than it was. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath of the evening air then sets of determinedly down the street, tugging Crowley behind him.

‘We’re going the wrong way Angel.’

‘We’re not, my dear.’

‘We _are_.’ Crowley stops dead, forcing Aziraphale to a halt. ‘The Bentley’s parked _that_ way.’

Aziraphale smirks. ‘Who said we were going back to the Bentley?’

They’ve reached the end of an alleyway. Aziraphale steers them down it, then, about twenty feet in, grabs the front of Crowley’s jacket and shoves him roughly against the wall. 

Crowley’s mouth falls open in shock. ‘Aziraph-‘

‘Shush.’

His hands are already working on Crowley’s belt. Crowley watches him with a mixture of disbelief and undisguised thirst.

‘Really, Angel? Down an alleyway?’

Aziraphale pauses in his efforts to shrug. ‘It’s less conspicuous than an empty cinema, at least, and I’d hate to inconvenience the staff. And I thought if I made you wait all the way back to London you might never speak to me again.’ He presses a quick kiss to Crowley’s lips and resumes undoing Crowley’s fly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.’

Crowley scoffs. ‘That’s very presumptuous of y-_ohhhhhhh_.’

Aziraphale tries very hard not to be smug as he watches the way Crowley falls to pieces the moment Aziraphale gets a hand wrapped around his cock. He leans in close, shielding them both from any prying eyes and starts to stroke in short, firm jerks the way he knows Crowley likes. His free hand presses against the rough brick wall above Crowley’s shoulder for support and one leg nudges between Crowley’s, tangling them together as closely as possible. Crowley’s hands cling around his neck, gripping handfuls of shirt collar and jacket as the demon softly swears a litany into the warm night air.

‘Oh fuck, Aziraphale, _shit_, yes, there, oh _fucking hell_…’

Aziraphale cradles his head and kisses him silent, even as Crowley hums and mumbles against his lips. Crowley’s hips jerk, unbidden, in time with Aziraphale’s hand. It’s only been a few minutes and Aziraphale can already feel how close he is. He twists his wrist, simultaneously swiping his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock, and eliciting a moan in response.

Aziraphale smiles. ‘That’s it, darling.’

Crowley makes a noise which is clearly intended to be a swear but never quite gets that far. His head is thrown back against the wall, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat just starting to break out over his forehead. He looks glorious.

Aziraphale quickens the pace of his hand, finding just the right angle, just the right amount of squeeze until Crowley’s cheeks are reddening and his body is trembling.

‘Angel… I’m…’ Crowley fights to get the words out. Aziraphale doesn’t need them.

‘Yes, dear. Please.’

Crowley tenses in his embrace and comes with a gasp into Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale pulls him close and holds him there, cooing gentle words of approval into his ear until Crowley has stopped shuddering through the post-release endorphins. 

‘There,’ Aziraphale asserts, voice tender. ‘That’s better.’ He flutters his fingers, miraculously cleaning them both up.

Crowley has finally regained the ability to support his own weight without Aziraphale’s assistance. He zips himself up and pulls the angel into a kiss. ‘You’re damn right it is,’ he mumbles.

Crowley’s sunglasses have come askew. Aziraphale reaches up to straighten them. ‘I’m so glad.’ He checks his watch. ‘It’s nearly midnight. Do you want to drive home or do you want to get a hotel room?’

‘Either. Up to you.’ Crowley is doing a very good impression of someone who hasn’t just received a handjob down a dark alleyway, apart from the pink spots still evident on his cheeks. ‘I’m not tired.’

‘Oh, good.’ A smile spreads over Aziraphale’s face. ‘I do prefer to – well, not sleep but… _relax_ in my own bed.’

Crowley smirks. ‘That can be arranged.’

*

It’s a long and mostly quiet drive home. Aziraphale breaks the silence somewhere around Harrogate. 

‘I really quite enjoyed that film, in the end.’

Crowley raises an amused eyebrow, only barely visible in the soft dark. ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’ 

Aziraphale ignores him and continues. ‘It’s such a shame that we stopped watching films together for so long. Do you think…’ he pauses to assume maximum innocence, ‘… there might have been others that we missed?’ His hand is on Crowley’s knee and quite possibly – though it’s hard to say for sure in the dark – sneaking higher. ‘Perhaps we could catch up.’

As it happens they’re just passing a 24 hour services. Crowley swings the wheel hard to the left and takes the exit at the last possible moment.

Aziraphale takes back his mildly wandering hand, wondering if he’s pushed it too far. ‘Is everything quite alright?’

‘Need coffee.’ Crowley mutters. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. He’s not against coffee, not at all, but _service station coffee_?

‘Really? Now?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why?’

Crowley pulls into a parking space and turns to Aziraphale, sliding his sunglasses down to look him directly in the eye. ‘Because, Angel,’ he says slowly and patiently, ‘If I don’t get some caffeine into my bloodstream _before_ I tell you about Netflix I’ll end up dying of exhaustion.’

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr.](https://squishylittlebear.tumblr.com) Come and talk to me, I'm friendly!


End file.
